


a face to call home

by entremelement



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, but anyway what in the world happened at that training camp, childhood otabek, mild angst though, we shall soon find out i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 04:29:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10632210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entremelement/pseuds/entremelement
Summary: Otabek’s never lived a day in his life skating for another. It’s always been for himself, to find his own home rink, to find something—or someone—to push him forward. It’s always been a sanctuary for him. To expect him to place at the Grand Prix Finals, let alone the Winter Olympics is something far beyond his dreams, but he skates anyway.Title from John Mayer's "A Face to Call Home", blame him for all the cliche sappiness that this fic brings you.If Otabek thinks Yuri has theunforgettable eyes of a soldier, then let's give Otabek a defining body part too, shall we?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strikinglight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strikinglight/gifts).



It was never commonplace for a skater to call his current rink _home_ without proving his worth to live on the ice, both in national and international competitions. A rink is never a place for staying, and Otabek realized as much, treating each rink as ephemeral--skate, rinse, repeat--for years on end, transferring to another, and another, and _another_ , until he is forced into retirement. A thought so frightening to him would be to remain in one place, dealing with people who will eventually score higher, people who will get used to his mediocrity.

It is for this reason that Otabek skipped town—from Russia, to Canada and America, then finally to his own country, refusing vehemently to call it home. Home is never a place where he is constantly groomed to compete, never a place where everything is a food chain, never a place where softness is not tolerated.

 

* * *

 

Otabek has been skating ever since he was a wee six-year-old, ice being the only constant thing that tells him what home must feel like. Winters in January were moments where any child would want to hole up in their room next to the heater, but Otabek gleefully braves the foot-thick snow to get to a nearby lake that's frozen over, to freely glide on the ice with a pair of old skates, worn down with use. He's had no formal training, but it comforts him to know that ice is perhaps the only thing that is willing to carry him through.

At 12, on his belly, he discovers Victor Nikiforov. Despite the slow internet connection and the sluggish touchpad response, his laptop, running on Windows, displays Victor Nikiforov clad in black, skating for the Juniors division. Elegant, refined, even the way this skater spins to gather momentum for a flip makes him gape. A true Black Swan on the ice, the commentator opines. His appearance is what amazes Otabek next--there are appendages on his chest akin to broken mirrors, a touch of frill on his hip, hair long enough to compel Kazakhstanis to cover him up with a hijab. When Victor successfully lands a quadruple flip, the whole audience responds with a roaring applause.

Otabek scrolls down and sees that his sort has touched many others, how he's grown up to compete for the Seniors division, how he has the potential to become a Grand Prix gold medalist, how he's one sure medalist for Russia in Sochi 2014. Incidentally, the comments section talk about his coach, Yakov Feltsman, and his upcoming training camp in Moscow. In no time at all, he runs to his parents and makes mention of this, and how his birthday's coming up. With a face so determined, they couldn't help but agree. It's time for him to plaster a big grin on his face, that is, until both of them say that he couldn't come home until he brings home a gold.

 

* * *

 

Yuri Plisetsky has never been a yes man, or a yes kid, for that matter. At such a young age, he believes that saying yes to anything besides _pirozhskis_ was a sign of docile weakness. Raised in a household functioning only by one pillar, his grandfather, he was raised to be tough, so he wouldn't be coerced or tricked into anything dangerous. After all, it was only him and his beloved _dedushka_ , and he'd be devastated when something unthinkable happens to his little _kotyonok._ At this point in time, skating's the only real thing that his grandfather's allowed him to do that's remotely dangerous. On the ice, he's never felt freer.

Imagine, however, the disdain that he felt towards Yakov Feltsman when he began ordering Yuri around like some kind of savage on ice. _Never do quads, your body is not ready for them, you're still developing so you better make good use of the warm-ups and stretches for your upcoming program instead of freeskating all over the place_ , among many other restraints. It’s been Yakov’s daily routine to scold the boy. Yakov continued to do so, until Yuri visibly showed signs of budding insubordination. At that point, he peered through his platinum-blonde bangs, slowly bared his teeth and gathered enough momentum to scream at Yakov. Just a long, piercing yell, nothing more. The whole rink came to a halt, and he turned on his heels to skate towards the ledge.

Victor paused from his rehearsal, put a gloved finger on his lower lip and turned to Yakov, already foamed at the mouth in the middle of the rink. "Well, he's a hard one, huh?" Victor wondered aloud, as he cocked his head to the side. " _You're_ one to talk, Vitya," Yakov remarked before he stared all of his skaters down. "Do you all see me yelling 'stop?' Get back to work!"

Yakov eventually attempted to get his budding champion back on ice, with a bit of compromise: he has to attend the training camp specially prepared by Lilia, as it's the last thing he's been left with after the divorce, aside from the ring.

 

* * *

 

At 10 years old, a boy's body is still relatively underdeveloped, compared to a girl's: no inverted triangle body, no hair growing in conspicuous places, no lengthened limbs. Instead, boys have to bear the growing pains of cracking voices and constant stumbling, of acne and so much angst. Yuri's no exception; he's experienced countless of involuntary voice switches and he's still pretty much a walking stick.

In the ballet hall, at the _godforsaken_ training camp, he shuts himself up lest he lets out a squeak and be made fun of, a feat beyond his powers. He'd always been the voice of the rink, quickly coming up with excuses and retorts, and yelling on top of his lungs when Yakov tells him off. Not today. Only his grandfather can call him _kotyonok,_ even sans the high-pitched voice.

The hall's filled with so many unfamiliar faces. Amidst the chatter, Yuri spots a dark-haired boy, sitting on the floor, in one corner of the hall. Windows are large enough to let light in, but Yuri couldn't get a good look at his face. It's as if he strategically placed himself in the darkness to avoid any sort of detection. Sunlight, however, reached his legs. This boy had old leg warmers, old enough to show small runs and a lack of garter to keep one of them up on his knees. One of the boy's hands pinched the falling leg warmer and slowly lifted it up to his knee.

Yuri stopped in the middle of the hall and restrained himself from going up to the boy in the darkness with such gentle hands.

 

* * *

 

Kazakhstan's never been this _lively_ , and Otabek grabs his knees and tries to tuck himself in the corner of the room as best as he could. This has never been the way he practiced, not in front of so many people, and _ballet_ , for heaven's sake. He curses his judgment, going all the way from Kazakhstan to Moscow, and having his parents give him a seemingly unattainable goal.

Ballet? What will become of him, when skating's the only thing that can make him lift his legs higher than what is considered appropriate? Perhaps it's worth a shot. The moment he finally decides to stand up, a dancer _literally_ does a jump with, what was that, a spin? No, two, maybe four?

Otabek decides to retreat to his little corner for a while.

 

* * *

 

The floorboards barely get any rest with a bunch of kids trying to pirouette their way to impress Yakov, which drives him a bit irate, to say the least. Yuri decides to hold onto one of the bars near the window and bend down to lift a leg in the air, showing to the other children what seems to be a vertical split. Much to their chagrin, they each stop in their tracks and attempt to do the prescribed training routine.

While his head is bent down, he uses the opportunity to search for the boy. To his surprise, the boy disappeared from the corner. _Maybe he’s gone home, maybe this is too much for him. What did he expect?_ Disappointed, Yuri slowly puts his leg down to avoid the risk of a nasty cramp, and it wasn’t until his heel touched the glossy floorboards that he spotted the boy.

The boy was too afraid, or rather, too stiff to even lift his leg on the bar. One hand is placed on the bar, and the other on the back of his knee, soothing his hamstrings. Yakov paid special attention to him, seeing as he wasn’t looking to impress and he sincerely needed help. Yuri turned his gaze away and feigned ignorance.

“YURI!”

Ah, but of course, Yakov sees right through him.

Yakov scratches the back of his head and sighs. “Help me with this boy. Show him how to stretch.”

 

* * *

 

Otabek’s close to giving up. So what if he can’t return to Almaty, he’d have other places to be in if he succeeds in figure skating, anyway. He lifts his hand up from his hamstrings and holds the bar with both hands. A blonde boy is called for him. Maybe it’s time to give up when children as little as this boy need to teach him the basics. 

Wordlessly, the boy stands in front of him, holding onto the bar with one hand and stretching the other out to balance himself. _What grace._ The boy turns his head to look at him, and Otabek spots this little boy glaring at him, looking at Otabek from the corner of his eye. Again, not uttering anything, he pauses for a while before lifting one leg backwards, slowly. 

Otabek picks this up almost immediately and copies the boy, bending down to stretch with him. Unfortunately, with little to no flexibility at all in his tiny frame, he lifts his leg only about a three feet off the ground. He looks at the floor with tears welling up in his eyes, _who the heck am I kidding, I’m not cut out for this, this is a joke--_

Yuri looks at him again, and seeing that it’s a struggle for him to _just_ stretch, he stops and puts both feet on the ground.

“You’ve never done this before?”

Otabek looks up, and stares the boy’s eyes, deep but gentle, seafoam green in the sunlight. There is no hint of irritation in his voice, but his face remains stoic. Despite that, Otabek feels the genuine concern in this boy’s voice. He doesn’t know whether or not he should be embarrassed or honest.

He stands up straight, lowering his leg, finally planting both feet firmly on the ground. “Never. Sorry for troubling you,” Otabek says, the tears slowly becoming unmanageable. It’s ridiculous, but he wished that he had bigger eyelids at that moment. “It’s okay,” the boy said. “This is normal.”

Otabek never intended to do ballet, much less be taught by this skinny boy. There is, however, something in his voice and the depth of his eyes that relaxed him, a welcome respite. It’s always been too cutthroat for him, too difficult to get to the level that he wants in ice skating.

Maybe it’s not so bad, ballet. It turned this boy into something of a prodigy. Well, at least, in his mind’s eye, he is. It’s in this boy’s eyes—that he’d go to war for what he truly desires.

 

* * *

 

Home rinks give one the opportunity to glide on the ice with ease, presumably because there, people wouldn’t have to judge. One could simply get carried away and fall one too many times, to get up and try that triple axel again. Otabek’s never had one of those rinks, at least, in his mind. Almaty’s his supposed home rink, but it rarely, or it never feels like it.

Otabek’s never lived a day in his life skating for another. It’s always been for _himself_ , to find his own home rink, to find something—or someone—to push him forward. It’s always been a sanctuary for him. To expect him to place at the Grand Prix Finals, let alone the Winter Olympics is something far beyond his dreams, but he skates anyway.

It’s been years since Otabek decided to return to Almaty; it’s never been easy to return. Perhaps there is good in this circumstance, or a definite answer to what he’d been looking for. He’s never won gold, not yet, at least, but his name fully enunciates greatness.

Returning isn’t always the same as _going home_ , but he has to get better at this. He has to see it for himself again. Perhaps it’d take years, but Otabek skates to find it. He hopes that he’ll see home one more time, with him in the rink, soldiering on.

**Author's Note:**

> I never thought that this fic would come in a timely manner. This is for [Meg](http://archiveofourown.org/users/strikinglight) who is currently dead, thanks to Welcome to the Madness. (But aren't we all?)
> 
> • Having read pertinent (ehem YOIwikia ehem) reference sites, I now know that Altin means ‘gold’ in Kazakh. I understand how this would pressure poor lil’ Beka.  
> • Kotyonok (котёнок) means kitten in Russian!  
> • Dedushka (y’all might be familiar with this – дедушка) means grandpa/grandfather!


End file.
